Possession
by Enlee
Summary: House shows up at Wilson's apartment. He's not limping. What is going on? House/Wilson slash. One shot. Please read and review.


Pounding, pounding and more pounding on the front door. Wilson's weary gaze settled on the clock and noticed it was after three in the morning. Bang, bang, bang…whoever was at the front door wasn't giving up. An patient emergency? No, they would have at least called first. Wait…was his phone out of order? He picked up the phone and heard the low hum of the dial tone. His cell phone was in its charger on the night stand.

Bang, bang, bang.

Cursing under his breath, Wilson threw back the covers and shuffled to the bedroom door and down the hall until the front door came into sight, turning on all the lights as he went along. All the while the incessant and annoying pounding continued.

"Who is it?" Wilson called out as he flipped on more lights in the living room.

The pounding stopped and a very familiar voice answered, "It's me."

"House?"

"Who else would it be?"

"It's three in the morning, for crying out loud. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Why don't you open the damn door and find out?"

Walking to the door, Wilson said, "You better have a real damn good reason for waking me up."

He threw back the deadbolt and opened the door.

House loomed in the doorway, the light catching his eyes and making them look electrified from within; his light blue shirt only brought out more highlights than anyone had a right to have. A crooked half-smile tugged at his mouth. "I have a very damn good reason," he told the oncologist.

"What is it?"

House didn't answer, he looked past Wilson and into the living room where they had watched movies and played Crazy Eights the night before. Wilson noticed that his friend was taking in everything as if he was seeing the place for the first time.

"What do you want, House?"

The electric blue eyes fell back on him, and now they seemed to glow on their own. There was something hungry and predatory about them. Wilson felt the hair on the back his neck stand up.

House asked, "Aren't you going to be a good host and invite me in?"

Exasperated, the oncologist stood aside and made a sweeping arm gesture in the apartment. "By all means, feel free to come in."

The diagnostician's face broke into a full smile that didn't diminish the predatory gaze in his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome." Wilson closed and locked the door. Turning back around, he saw that House didn't have his cane and wasn't limping. "You're back on methadone. Is that what you woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me? Couldn't that wait until morning?"

"I'm not on methadone," House blithely told him. He stood in the middle of the living room and his eyes never left Wilson.

"Did you find something else?" Wilson asked, as the temperature of the room fell. He wished he had put on his robe before answering the door. Why was it so cold in there? It was at least seventy degrees outside.

House chuckled. His teeth seemed blindingly white. "You could say that."

With a heavy sigh, Wilson said, "House, please, just tell me what you want so I can go back to sleep."

"I came here for what's mine, Jimmy, and it can't wait until the morning."

"There isn't anything here that's yours, unless you left something here by mistake." Wilson was puzzled that House was addressing him by his first name.

"Yes, there is."

"So take it and leave. What is it?"

"You."

Wilson hadn't smelled any alcohol on his friend. Indeed, House appeared steady on his feet. Almost graceful. As if sensing what the oncologist was thinking, House put all his weight on his right leg. No screaming in agony. Not even a bat of an eyelash. No pain in the leg at all.

Wilson still asked, "Are you drunk?"

"I'm very, very sober," House replied. He took a step forward and grinned wickedly as Wilson took an involuntary step back.

A prickly feeling began on Wilson's scalp and spread down his back. The longer House stayed, the worse it got. Wilson wanted House gone and he wanted him gone as soon as possible.

"Get out," the oncologist ordered.

"No. I'm not leaving without what's mine."

Another step forward. Another step backward.

"Get out of here, House."

"No. You, on the other hand, you are going to stay right where you are."

House closed the distance between them in seven steps. Wilson wanted to step back but couldn't, as if being held in place by invisible hands. All he could do was feel his heart pound against his chest as he gulped for air like a fish out of water. Up close House's eyes were now a roaring blaze of blue fire, his skin smooth and flawless.

Taking his friend's hand, House quietly said, "Now it's time to show you why I'm not limping anymore."

House's hand felt like a January night, frozen and empty. When Wilson's own hand pressed against House's neck, it felt like he was touching an iceberg. No warmth to be found, and Wilson could feel his own draining away as he tried in vain to find House's pulse even though he knew there was none to be found. House licked his lips in what seemed to be deliberate gesture, his white teeth glittering in the golden glow of the living room light, the canines longer than the rest.

Wilson stammered, "How did this…this…how did this happen?"

"I was in the right place at the right time."

"House--"

"You know why I'm here," House murmured, his calm voice was like a satin ribbon brushing against Wilson's cheek. "You know why I'm not leaving here without you."

"Please, House, just go away," Wilson pleaded.

"Not without you."

"You tricked me into inviting you in here."

"All you had to do was say no. You can't blame me for that. Now come with me--"

"No."

"You're coming with me, Jimmy."

"I _can't_..."

"Yes, you can."

"_No!_" Wilson wrenched free from the unseen grip and stumbled into the hall. "Get out of here!" Without waiting for a response he turned and ran to his bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. Sweat rolled down his face and stung his eyes. His whole body wracked with sobs as he struggled to breathe. He leaned all his weight against the door, holding the doorknob, waiting for it to turn in his hand. Never in his wildest dreams did he believe this to be possible. But here it was, in his apartment, coming after him--

"You've been running from what you really want your whole life," House said from behind him.

Wilson whipped his head around to see the man who should be on the other side of the door was now standing at the foot of his bed.

As House started towards him, Wilson shrank back with each step until he was literally backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. The air was freezing again and Wilson could feel himself shivering, the sweat and tears on his face turning to ice. House was toe-to-toe with him and reached out to stroke his cheek. House's touch was like silk and Wilson felt his fear slowly diminish until he was surrounded by an eerie calm.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you," House reassured him as he began to smooth down Wilson's hair in a gesture the oncologist found strangely comforting. "I wish I hadn't scared you, but there was no other way to show you what I have become."

"Why did you come back for me, House?" Wilson's teeth were chattering in the freezing room.

House noticed his friend was uncomfortable and guided him over to the bed. "Because you're the only thing in this world that means anything to me, and I'm not about let you go." They sat down and House draped the comforter over Wilson's shoulder. It did nothing to help with the cold and Wilson still shivered.

The oncologist asked, "What did you mean when you said that I've been running from what I really want?"

"You know exactly what I mean." House gestured at the small bedroom. "All alone in this little apartment. Three marriages in the toilet and one girlfriend in the ground. Yet the one thing you've always wanted has been right in front of your face the whole time and he's right in front of you now."

"I loved my wives," Wilson said, and blinked back the sting of fresh tears. "I loved Amber. You hated them all because they took me away from you."

"Very perceptive. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn't it? And yes, I know you loved all your wives and Amber. That didn't stop the wives you loved so much from divorcing you or the girlfriend you loved so much from dying, did it?"

"No, it didn't."

"I've always wondered if that thought ever crossed your mind when you were at the hospital, saving your patients from the inevitable."

"What's inevitable?"

"Death."

"I save lives," Wilson insisted. The blue eyes held him, devoured him, and Wilson dimly realized that he was nowhere near as angry with House as he should be. "I help people every day."

"So you say," House said with a low chuckle. "I know little Jessica Taylor certainly looked up to you."

Jessica Taylor. Wilson hadn't allowed himself to think of that name for months. Jessica had come to him a year ago. A case of Stage II Hodgkin disease and had responded well to chemotherapy. All American eleven-year-old with blonde hair and blue eyes who told him all about her plans to become a veterinarian and her pet horse Smokey. She gave him a horse figurine when she went home from the hospital and sent him a card on his birthday. Then one nice sunny day the inevitable had caught up to Jessica too soon and blindsided everyone.

"Don't you dare throw that in my face." Wilson's voice was low and harsh. "How can you possibly blame me--"

"I'm not blaming you. Just like you can't blame me for Amber. I'm just pointing out what happens when we aren't looking. What happened to Jessica?"

"You know what happened."

"So do you. Now say it."

"No." Wilson whispered, feeling the last of his resolve slipping away.

"Say it." House repeated, reaching up to stroke his friend's cheek again, feeling Wilson shudder beneath his palm.

"She…Jessica…she was in the car with her mother," Wilson began shakily. "They were at a stoplight and…and…some drunk came tearing down the road in the opposite direction, not even slowing down and hit their car head-on…"

He broke down then, and remembered how his knees had buckled when he had heard the news. Remembered feeling almost grateful that Jessica had died instantly. Remembered how the bottom of his stomach had fallen out when he went to the funeral and the absence of Jessica's mother was so obvious it was almost comical. But Mrs. Taylor couldn't attend her daughter's funeral because she was in a coma, and would remain in a coma for nearly four months. Mrs. Taylor, who Wilson remembered as being so proud of her beautiful daughter, was now in a wheelchair and would never walk or talk again. The drunk driver had been a nineteen-year-old kid with a previous DUI and a revoked license. He died from his injuries three days after the crash.

Wilson collapsed into House and let the tears flow. He cried for Jessica Taylor, he cried for the wives he had loved and lost, he cried for Amber, he cried for the loneliness he couldn't escape no matter how hard he tried or how far he ran. It always caught up with him, tormented him, punished him for reasons he couldn't comprehend.

House let his friend cry against him and brought him into an embrace, only vaguely aware of the hot, salty tears soaking through his shirt. House knew all about the loneliness Wilson felt. He had spent many long days and endless nights swallowed up by it. He knew all about the stale, musty apartments, eating his food over the sink, nobody there to see him through the rough nights except the reflection of the man he had started to hate more than his miserable, drug-addled existence. That's why he welcomed this new beginning with open arms. A chance to start over. No pain. No addiction. No ball and chain made from Vicodin pills. The only thing left now was to make sure he wasn't going to lose the one thing worth living for, both in his old life and new life.

House slid the comforter off Wilson's shoulders in a soft whisper of fabric, then lay him back on the bed. The oncologist's face was a flush of hot pink and streaked with tears. His eyes were red from crying, but House saw the startling clarity in them, and the acceptance of his fate. Wilson had surrendered. Wilson was his. Their years of suffering in silence were over.

He covered Wilson's body with his and brushed his mouth against Wilson's mouth, hearing a gasp, feeling his friend's muscles tense beneath him. Then Wilson tilted his head to the side, exposing his throat. The long line of his neck, the pulse beating beneath the skin. Wilson was waiting. House could no longer wait and sank his sharp teeth into the soft flesh.

Wilson arched up as if a bolt of lightning had struck his spine. He felt House's arms encircle him and pull him closer and closer with each mouthful of blood. A roar of white noise filled his head. It was overwhelming. It wasn't nearly enough. It was everything he could ever want. It was nothing. House was relentless, seeming unable or unwilling to stop. The white noise faded to a dull roar, then to a low hum, then to a beautiful, crystalline silence.

A voice was talking to him. A voice he knew very well. At first it sounded very far away, but now it was getting closer and closer and more insistent.

"Wake up."

Wilson opened his eyes. He was still on the bed and could see every single individual fiber in the sheets that were stained with drops of his blood. Looking around his bedroom he saw the cracks in the paint, the dust settling on the furniture. House was resting on a pile of pillows, waiting for him. House was smiling, a genuine smile that Wilson had seen so rarely in his friend. He hoped to see a lot more of it in the future. A drop of blood clung to House's chin. Unable to resist, Wilson reached for it. House did not interfere, and brushed the inside of Wilson's wrist with his long pianist fingers as his friend continued towards his goal. At last the drop of blood was now his, on the tip of his finger, and Wilson brought it to his mouth. The taste was incredible, sending a shudder through his whole body.

"There's nothing like it," House said quietly. "Nothing like it in the world. It can't compare to anything."

House reached out and clasped his hand behind Wilson's neck and pulled him in. Their mouths crushed together in a harsh and determined frenzy. The jolt of pleasure Wilson felt with the taste of blood returned, and he felt himself lost in a dizzying whirlwind of hands and mouths. Wilson heard a moan and realized he was the one moaning. House broke away and Wilson gasped at loss of touch from his friend.

"We need to go," House said, though Wilson could hear the reluctance in his voice. He had only broke off their kisses because he had to. "Get dressed and pack some extra clothes. We aren't coming back here."

Wilson nodded and climbed off the bed, heading straight for the closet. A few random shirts were pulled from their hangers and tossed on the bed before Wilson chose one to wear.

While peeling off his t-shirt, Wilson asked, "Where are we going?"

"A safe place to sleep," House assured him. "The sun will be up soon. We need to get going."

Wilson shrugged on his clean shirt and buttoned it up, then dug around the closet for the overnight bag. His shirts and several pairs of jeans were soon stuffed into it. His longer canines bit into his lower lip. He found it a curious feeling, not unwelcome. "What are we doing tomorrow?"

House replied, "I don't know. What would you like to do?"

Wilson laughed and said, "There are so many things…I don't know if I can choose just one."

"That's all right," House replied with a smile. "You don't have to decide right now. There are plenty of nights ahead to do that."

--The End


End file.
